


ex·tinc·tion

by indefensibleselfindulgence



Series: variation upon a theme [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Typical Weirdness, Facebook, Illnesses, Minor Character Death, Other, Power Swap, Sickfic on a Technicality, Vomiting, emotional ambiguity, playing fast and loose with stuff a singular avatar can do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-12 15:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18449402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefensibleselfindulgence/pseuds/indefensibleselfindulgence
Summary: Noun: the state or process of a species, family, or larger group being or becoming extinct.





	ex·tinc·tion

**Author's Note:**

> uh im leaning into the whole pollution/technology/nuclear annihilation/societal malaise thing you know the fun stuff? 
> 
> not beta'd

“Well.” The man takes his glasses off of his nose and slides them into his front shirt pocket. “Nice to finally meet you.”  
  
Martin blinks, more shocked than anything, when Peter exists in front of him- between him and the man.  
  
“And you are? The secretary didn't call ahead.”  
  
“Rude of her.” The man looks between Peter and Martin as best he can. Peter's certainly not making it easy for him. “You gossip about me so much, and you don't even know my name? I'd feel hurt, but.”  
  
He's thin, hair graying at the roots, biggest circles under his eyes that Martin's ever seen.  
  
“Extinction.” He whispers, and Peter sighs.  
  
“I suppose. Though I'm still shopping around for proper names.” He smiles and Martin thinks it would be a rather charming smile if it wasn't for all the smoke- no, smog pouring out of his mouth. “You've Done This feels right but a bit on the nose.”  
  
“They're all on the nose,” Peter says and takes a step back as the smog begins to settle on the floor, the smell of chlorine and paint thinner and gasoline sinking into their clothes.  
  
“Blackened Earth is interesting. Watcher's Crown too.” Martin chances another look just as the man scratches his neck, sickly pale. “Where are they, by the way? Watcher and Archivist.”  
  
“Jail,” Peter says, and takes another step back forcing Martin up and against the door. “And where's Basira, Martin?”  
  
“Don't know.”  
  
“Doesn't know. Travesty.” Martin chances a look out the windows of the office. The hallway is empty but not the wrong kind of empty. It's still here. Peter can't leave- this man won't let them leave. Well. At least Peter's come back for him.  
  
It's more then he expected.  
  
“Yes.” The man says and sighs. The smell of burning plastic coming off of him makes Martin nearly gag. “Travesty.”  
  
He pulls his phone out, not a model Martin recognizes at a glance, and taps away at it.  
  
“Martin you need to-” Peter shakes his shoulder and Martin catches his eyes. “You need to go.”  
  
“Where- I-” He makes a hand movement, fingers twitching.  
  
“Fixed your CCTV for you.” The man says, not bothering to look up. “Did you know that was off? What a lark. This place and no CCTV?”  
  
“If you get to the street, they'll be a car- my nephew will get you away-”  
  
“Oh, black sedan?” The man looks up, flips his screen around. “You know most new cars are so- what is it- convenient? All electronic now, don't even need real keys anymore.”  
  
Martin doesn't need to look to know that it's a photo, several photos even, of a car wreck.  
  
Peter swallows, audibly. Not a good sign, generally, Martin's found.  
  
“So where does that leave us now then?” His voice doesn't waver, and that's fairly impressive, circumstances considering.  
  
“Barely even born and you try and sweep our legs out from under us? The rest of you had chances, where are ours? You understand, don't you, Peter Lukas? Whispering about things like that, it's nice to know you're scared.”  
  
“We've had bigger concerns,” Martin says, over Peter's shoulder.  
  
“Have you? Worms, I suppose. Very frightening. And dolls.” He walks around the desk and sits in Elias' chair. “Aren't you tired of it all? Aren't you always tired?” He rests his hands in his hands. “I was. I still am, really. But I suppose that never leaves anymore. Aren't you exhausted? Hm-” He stops, looking back at his phone. The click of the phone camera goes off before anyone has a chance to do anything. “Martin Blackwood. Still, have a facebook? Really?”  
  
“I meant to... delete it.” Peter looks at him with the sort of disdain he's so much more used to, and the slip of normalcy almost grounds him.  
  
“Not a lot of friends. No wonder you're with him.” He almost looks bored now, sliding through his account. “Oh you write poetry- that's sweet. Not particularly good, though.”  
  
“That's just-” Rude, he wants to say as another wave of nausea rolls over him. The man smiles again, and more of that smog rolls out, like nitrogen, rolling slowly across the desk and down the floor.  
  
“I friended you.”  
  
Martin looks at Peter who's not really paying attention anymore, thinking of ways to get away or at least get Martin away. He didn't think the Lonely was as weak as the Beholding was.  
  
The man's name is Jon Sims. He only has three- now four friends. One of them is a pet account.  
  
“Thanks?”  
  
“Anytime, Martin.” The man- Jon closes his eyes for a moment. “It was nice meeting you both.”  
  
And just like that, he's gone.  
  
“Well.” Peter opens the door, finally, and the smog pools out into the hallway. “That's enough excitement for one day, don't you think? You should take the rest of the day off.”  
  
“Right. Are- are you okay? I mean- Your nephew-”  
  
But Peter's gone too.  
  
Martin's head hurts.

  
…

  
There's a rash on his forearms, almost down to the wrist, that he notices when he's lying in bed and scrolling through his phone.  
  
It's sore and blistering, and when he prods at it lightly it bruises almost instantly, and when he touches the spot again, his finger comes away bloody. He considers calling Peter, but then, Jon's not Corruption. This could just be a spider bite that he didn't notice in all of the commotion. There's been so many of them at the office lately anyway.  
  
It's not getting any worse really, and with the way he's been existing lately, he really doesn't want to bother medical staff and ruin their lives, somehow. He bandages his arm and lies in bed, staring at Jon's facebook.  
  
He's doing research, obviously.  
  
There's not a lot on there, just some pictures of the man when he was obviously younger, mostly tagged by other accounts. His university days. If he wasn't a monster he'd be cute, Martin thinks with some sense of embarrassment.  
  
The two other accounts are of some girl who runs a podcast and uses her page as a business advertisement, and the other one is of a deceased page of some angry looking goth. Jon's account is the only one to leave a farewell message.  
  
That's kind of sad, almost, but again, scary smog monster.  
  
The nausea still hasn't gone away, not really.  
  
The pet account is of some massive orange thing that could be a cat or could be a fox in certain angles. It seems pretty popular. Jon likes most of the photos. It is pretty cute. The Admiral, it's called. Jon leaves comments under the videos and the account actually reply to him.  
  
It's shockingly simple.  
  
He expected something worse.  
  
He wakes up late for work the next day, still tired. A lot of hair on his pillow, but otherwise, fine. The rash hasn't gotten any worse. Hasn't gotten any better, but.  
  
He's fine.

  
…

  
Martin gets lunch at the Deli he used to visit with Sasha and Jon sits in the corner, reading his phone.  
  
The building is oddly empty, aside from them and two workers who look rather under the weather. Maybe something's going around.  
  
“Martin.”  
  
“Jon.” Smooth. Smooth and respectable.  
  
“How have you been?” He doesn't make a habit of looking up from his phone, glasses still down, thin curls of smoke twisting up towards the ceiling, darker than the smog. That same burning plastic smell is back, with undertones of exhaust and maybe just a hint of aerosol again.  
  
“Fine, I guess. Considering.”  
  
“Right. Stressful. I understand. Everyone's tired these days. Have you noticed? Tired and sad.”  
  
“I suppose that's a sign for you? End times?”  
  
“Maybe,” Jon says. “I'm still figuring things out. It was a lot of nothing, and then everything accelerated so quickly, I don't have teachers like everyone else does. But people want to rest. Talk to anyone our age.”  
  
“Oh so- you're what? Thirty?”  
  
“Twenty-nine.” A year younger than Martin- but then he knew that, from the facebook page.  
  
“It's just-” He shrugs. “Just the zeitgeist.”  
  
“Well, maybe you'd know better than me.” He says. “You're the one jumping from power to power.”  
  
There's an implication that makes Martin frown, He should leave. Get lunch elsewhere. If he could eat at all really. He coughs, to try and clear his throat before hacking harder.  
  
An allergic reaction, maybe.  
  
To the spider bite.  
  
Jon waves as he leaves.

  
…

  
  
Peter has the same rash, up and down his arms, and around his neck and when he coughs he draws blood, and it does little other than turn Martin's stomach.  
  
“At least Corruption has the decency to be quick about it,” Peter says bitterly while Martin pours their third cup of tea. “And you?”  
  
“No blood yet.”  
  
“From your throat you mean.” And he points at the bandage that's turning pink. Martin didn't even notice when the skin must have broken.  
  
“I guess.”  
  
Peter coughs again.

  
…

  
He finally throws up. There's blood, and Martin can't bring himself to be surprised.  
  
He drinks water and lays in bed and tries not to cough his throat anymore raw.  
  
The angry goth's name is Gerard Keay. Martin is only familiar with his mother because his mother skinned herself alive. The woman is Georgie Barker, and her podcast is called What The Ghost and the Admiral is her cat.  
  
They went to university together, her and Jon. They used to date, for a year. There's a few pictures of them together, one of Jon holding a much smaller Admiral and trying to hide a smile. The only picture of Jon and Gerard together is on vacation. Jon's wearing a tacky bar shirt. It's a selfie. They look horrifically mismatched, but Jon looks happy.  
  
He messages Georgie, more out of curiosity than anything and unsurprisingly doesn't get an answer back.  
  
He wakes up twice to throw up again, and when he gets back in bed, he's certain its a fever now.  
  
In the morning, when he showers and washes his hair, it comes out in clumps.

  
…

  
A young woman talks to Rosie when he gets in for work, and she takes one look at him and sighs.  
  
Georgie looks like what he expected her to. Prettier, in real life. Photos really didn't do her justice.  
  
“He applied here, I think? When we were still together.” She says. “Someone turned him down though.”  
  
“And now he's-” Martin trails off. He's not going to be the one to say-  
  
“And now he's a monster. Who's given you radiation poisoning, by the way. That's what that is.” She reaches into her massive bag and pulls out a slim well-worn box, and after turning a dial, an obnoxious loud clicking sound goes off. Even louder when she points it at him.  
  
“Do you just carry that around?” Because that's a good first question.  
  
“He does this a lot.”  
  
“Oh. Are you... also...”  
  
“No. I'm not involved in whatever this place is. Or any of the others.” He coughs, off to the side, and wipes the blood on his jeans. “Yeah. If it's that bad, I'd say go to a doctor but, I doubt any hospital will actually admit you. You're a walking biohazard.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“If I were you I'd get your affairs in order. Or ask him to take it back.” She shrugs. “He might.”  
  
“Oh.” He says again, like an idiot.  
  
“You know the fire people?”  
  
“Desolation?” Blackened Earth, he had mentioned.  
  
“He hangs out with them sometimes. Or the weird murder band.” Georgie pauses for a moment. “Actually, they're not that bad, now that I think about it. Ethically, horrific, but musically? Anyway.” She stands up and packs her counter with her. “Good luck.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
Later, when there are people running all of a sudden, down to the office, and Martin doesn't have to run after them to know Peter died.

  
…

  
He finds Jon surrounded by Lightless Flame members, smoking.  
  
Jon either doesn't see him or pretends not to see him so Martin inches around the hot bodies of the cultists until he's right next to him. Jon startles when Martin tugs on his sleeve, a large plume of dark smoke pouring out of Jon's mouth at once before he coughs.  
  
“Sorry,” Martin mumbles while a woman laughs beside them. “Really.”  
  
Of to the worst start, maybe.  
  
The smog makes him cough, and he doesn't bother cleaning the blood from his mouth. Maybe with his teeth covered in it, he'll look more pitiful, and that might be the only thing going for him.  
  
“Martin.” Jon blinks, pulling his glasses off his face. The woman whistles and he doesn't spare her a glance.  
  
“Peter died.”  
  
“Did he?” The woman whistles again, and claps Jon on the back.  
  
Martin swallows and nods, and the woman laughs, leaning on Jon's back, arms over his shoulders, before she ruffles his hair and Jon looks shockingly self-satisfied. She practically hangs off of him, her fingers dripping onto the floor.  
  
“Look at you.” She says, proud, and presses a singeing kiss into the side of his head.  
  
“Jude.” He sounds like an embarrassed child who's clingy mother won't leave him alone.  
  
“Agnes would be proud too.” She says, and he softens with that.  
  
“Could you-” Martin tries to clear his throat which only turns to more pathetic hacking. “Sorry to- to interrupt. Could you fix me?” That sends Jude cackling again, and Jon turns his head to try and hide a smile.  
  
“How do you imagine I do that?”  
  
“I don't know-” He feels very small.  
  
Tired.  
  
“Jump ship, kid.” Jude leans forward over Jon again. He can feel the heat that rolls off of her even through his fever. “Don't you want an little helper, Jon? An assistant?”  
  
“Not really.”  
  
Of course not. He doesn't know what he was hoping for- what he thought any part of this would even accomplish, really.  
  
“Aw. He looks like a kicked puppy.”  
  
“I have that effect on people.” Martin turns to leave, Jude's cackling following him all the way on to the street. He tastes blood in his mouth.  
  
It drips down his nose too.

  
…

  
The angry goth shows up in his dreams.  
  
Martin thinks it's odd at first, until Gerard “Call me Gerry” Keay tells him that he's bound, literally, to an End book, and then it's just more business as usual.  
  
“Just appeal to his better nature. Or get a cat.”  
  
“A cat?” In the dream, his skin doesn't feel like its dipped in acid, and his lungs don't ache. He can't taste iron anymore. He has a full head of hair.  
  
“Massive soft spots for cats. I think he had one, before? Or his ex had one. It's his phone background at least.”  
  
They sit in front of the Trevi fountain which Martin was sure he'd never see in real life, where Jon and Gerry took that one picture together. It's a gorgeous sunny day, and if he doesn't focus on the fact that the other tourists don't have faces, he thinks he could really learn to like this.  
  
“Why are you helping?”  
  
“He needs more friends who aren't dead.” Gerry pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lights one with a cheap looking lighter that looks a lot like Jon's.  
  
“I don't think he likes me.”  
  
“You'll grow on him. Probably. You seem friendly.”  
  
“Do you give this pep-talk to everyone he poisons?”  
  
“No.” Gerry blows a thin line of smoke through his nose. It smells of nicotine, faintly. “He doesn't bother keeping most people alive this long.”  
  
“Ah. Does he- Does he know?”  
  
Gerry shrugs.  
  
“He does, or he doesn't. I only found you cause you're irradiated the way you are.” Through Jon, Martin thinks he means. “I spend most of my time in his pocket,” Gerry explains like that's a normal thing to say casually.  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Oh-” Gerry puts a finger up, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cheap looking felt tip marker. “Before you go.” He grabs Martin's hand and scribbles an address on Martin's palm. “He'll be there tomorrow, sevenish, if you want to try again.”  
  
“He didn't seem- interested last time.” He says again, starring at the address.  
  
“Well, look at it this way.” Gerry gets up, cigarette already down to nothing in what feels like a few seconds, and he tosses it into the fountain. Some people shriek in objection, but Gerry walks back to him, pulling his long hair up and out of his face. Same deep circles under his eyes, made even more obvious by the eyeliner. “Either you make nice, or you die trying to vomit your lungs up alone in your apartment.”  
  
“Well, when you put it like that.”  
  
Gerry shrugs.  
  
“Tell Jon I like you, maybe it'll net you some favor.”  
  
“Do you?” Gerry pulls on a pair of glasses- Jon's glasses, and turns to walk away, almost disappearing into the faceless crowds.  
  
“Why not?”

  
  
…

  
He can barely move his legs, can barely keep his eyes open by the time he stumbles into the dive bar.  
  
There are some people setting up on stage, or unsetting up, Martin can't tell, and Jon sits at furthest bar seat, talking to- no- talking at one of the musicians. A cellist, leaning against his seat while Jon whispers about Peter Lukas' death.  
  
“Jon.” The monster turns around and gives him a glance before finishing his one-sided conversation. “Please.”  
  
“Please what, Martin?”  
  
“Please- Please anything-” A flutist clears his throat and taps the microphone before giving Jon a wink and playing the first notes. Martin doesn't pay attention to the mountain frenzy around them. Barely can with the blood pounding in his ears. And out of his ears. “Jon.”  
  
“I can't undo this.” He says, and the lighter smog pours out of his mouth. “Best I could do is speed it up. And that is something, isn't it?”  
  
“I'm-” Martin leans against the barstool, almost slides off of it.  
  
He doesn't want to die. Not after the worms and Not Them and the Unknowing. Not after Sasha and Tim and his mother. He's not going to- He doesn't want to yet. Not yet. He's suffered too much to just throw it all away because some cute abomination had a fight with his stand-in boss.  
  
“You're?” Jon's obviously not listening, too enraptured by the senseless violence in the rest of the place, glass flying and bones shattering.  
  
Georgie was right though, the music's nice.  
  
“I'm useful.” He says, hands shaking, dripping red on to the floor. “And sturdy. A- A really quick study.”  
  
“But aren't you tired, Martin?” There's the tiniest smile on his face. “Don't you want to rest, Martin?”  
  
“Why do you keep saying that-” He cuts himself off with a miserable cough, deep and red.  
  
“Because things don't hurt when you sleep.” He says. He reaches into his pocket, and there's the flesh page, just like Gerry said it would be. “There's nothing to worry about. Real life is a nightmare. Wouldn't it be better to just- rest.”  
  
Jon runs delicate fingers over the pale skin, flipping it over in his fingers.  
  
So Martin does what he does- well no, not best, Basira is way better at on the fly choices likes this- but he does- he does something.  
  
“What if I could get him back?” Another cough. “Corporeal.” And another. “The Archives- The Archives are-”  
  
“Very big, yes I know.” He sighs, and maybe the fever finally starts melting his brain, but there's a look of hopefulness, maybe. “Georgie likes you.”  
  
“Oh.” That's nice of her.  
  
“I'm. Fairly demanding.”  
  
“But you need help- all of them need help-” Even if it seems like Jon might be the exception to the rule.  
  
“Tell me where the Archivist is. And then I'll- I'll fix you.”  
  
“I-” Peter's kept him in such isolation that even if he wanted to, he had no idea. But- But he knew where Daisy was- and that's- that's almost like knowing where the Archivist is- where Basira is.  
  
“Martin?”  
  
Yes, he supposes, it's only polite to inquire about one's health when one faints at a concert.

  
…

  
He wakes up in a hospital room- no. In a hospital bed in a room made out of plastic, with iv's and monitors, thirsty and delirious.  
  
“What happened?” He asks no one in particular.  
  
“You died.” That's Jon's voice, unmistakably, even if muffled by the bubble Martin's in.  
  
“Oh.” Martin tries to turn his head, and it's harder then he imagined it would be. Jon's holding a big ball of- “Is that a cat?”  
  
“I'm babysitting.” It's hard to see through the plastic, but Jon scratches behind its ears, and it purrs so loudly, Martin thinks he's losing his mind again. “Georgie had to go to a convention.”  
  
“Oh.” Again.  
  
The- the normalcy of it all just really threw him.  
  
“I've thought about what you offered. I wouldn't mind if you did.”  
  
“That was on offer before I died.” He says without thinking because really, the nerve.  
  
“Oh, my mistake.” Jon stands, and The Admiral jumps up onto his shoulders, and then they're both in Martin's bubble. “And if I reintroduced the same circumstances again, would the offer return?” The smell of disease and fire and metal might as well drown him. “Didn't realize you were such a glutton for punishment.”  
  
Well obviously.  
  
Martin takes a deep breath, and smog pours out of Jon's mouth.  
  
It's in him again. He can feel the slow creep of it, the rancid smell of burning plastic sticking to his hair as his skin begins to burn itself from the inside out.  
  
The cat seems entirely unphased.    
  
Like it's used to this.  
  
“Wait-” The smog gets pulled back into his mouth like a smoke trick. “I'll- I'll start research tomorrow.”  
  
“My very own assistant.” Jon smiles at him, the dark wisps rising and fading like regular cigarette smoke. “Really moving up in the world, aren't we?”  
  
The Admiral purrs when Jon scratches under his chin. 

"So-"

"I'll come collect you soon. Once my friends flush the rest of it out of your uh-"

"Irradiated corpse." He should ask who Jon's friends are- who does hospitals? Or places that look like hospitals? Rich people? Maybe? For someone power that doesn't even know what it's going to call itself Jon sure has a lot of friends. Martin can't help but wonder where he finds them.

"That's the one."

And then Martin is alone.

Again.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always encouraged and very very very appreciated
> 
> talk[ to me here](http://iamalivenow.tumblr.com/) [ or here](https://twitter.com/licotain)


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